5
London
Radcliffe Town House
16 Lemington Square
Roxanne Radcliffe bounded out of her chair when her niece, Sophie Wilkie, appeared in the doorway to the drawing room.
“My dear girl, you are hours late. I’ve been so worried!”
Sophie tossed her cloak to Mint, the Radcliffe butler, whose mouth pinched at such careless behavior in a young lady. He’d traveled from Allegra Hall with Miss Roxanne to attend her during her upcoming travails in this huge city that was a cesspit of both wickedness and delight. He’d said to Mrs. Mifflin, the Allegra Hall housekeeper, and his occasional mistress, “I fear it will be a proper travail, what with that wild sprat, Miss Sophie, ready to turn her poor aunt’s hair gray.”
He had assured Lord Roche that he would protect Miss Roxanne with his life. He recalled Lord Roche had nodded gravely and thanked him. He did not know, however, that Lord Roche was quite certain that if such an unlikely occasion should arise, it would be Roxanne to protect Mint, who was of a very modest size, unlike his mistress. Mint watched Miss Roxanne skip like a wild sprat herself to Miss Sophie and embrace her.
“Oh, goodness,” Sophie said, “I forgot how wonderful you smell. What is it? Jasmine with a hint of lemon?”
Roxanne laughed. “Yes, a hint. What delayed you?”
“A carriage wheel broke outside of Marleythorpe, but let me tell you, I quite enjoyed myself at a local inn—the Screaming Gander—drinking lemonade. Well, mayhap there was a minuscule dollop of brandy mixed in, made me shiver all the way to my toes and laugh at everything the owner, Mrs. Dolly Grange, said to me. She joined me, but I fear there was more than a dollop of brandy in her glass. Do you think Cook could prepare this sort of lemonade? No matter, ah, it is so good to see you, Roxanne. Why would a gander scream?”
“Doubtless she was being pursued by a lusty goose.”
Sophie laughed, hugged her aunt again, then danced around the Radcliffe drawing room, her full skirts a beautiful kaleidoscope of greens. She untied the ribbons beneath her chin and gently laid her very new and stylish green crepe bonnet on a chair. “It is so good to be with you. At last I am to be presented. I had wanted to be with you a fortnight ago, as you know, but my father was overset by some local matters—ah, you know how he is—”
Roxanne knew exactly how he was.
“—but that’s not important now. I’m here to dance until there are holes in my slippers, and”—she looked utterly wicked—“I can flirt and flutter my eyelashes and slay all the gentlemen within ten feet of me. What do you think?”
“I think at least fifty feet, and slaying is always a fine idea.”
Sophie blinked, laughed. “Ah, I forget. You don’t ever wish to take a husband.” She shot a look toward Mint, hovering in the doorway, her lovely pale green velvet cloak still spilling over his arm, no expression at all on his plump face. She had no doubt he was paying close attention to everything they said, and gave him a little finger wave. “Do you know, even the rain feels different in London?”
Roxanne smiled and shook her head. She said to Mint, “I know Mrs. Eldridge is at sixes and sevens, but perhaps she has some tea and cakes?”
Within ten minutes, the two ladies were seated on a lovely blue-and-cream striped brocade sofa, their skirts spread out around them, drinking oolong tea and savoring apricot tarts that tasted like heaven.
Roxanne saluted Sophie with her teacup. “Did you know your mama gave me lessons on how to flirt with my eyes on the morning of my sixteenth birthday?”
Sophie stared at her, mouth open. “My mother gave you eye-flirting lessons?”
“Yes, indeed. I also remember her waltzing you around the drawing room. You were shrieking so loud, your grandfather came marching in demanding some ‘demmed’ quiet. Of course, he stayed to waltz. Do you remember that visit?”
Sophie said, “Oh, yes. It was so exciting, since Mama never waltzed me around our drawing room at home. And Grandpapa, such fun he was. I thought he was taller than a tree. Do you know, I don’t think Mama ever waltzed around the drawing room with Papa? Actually, I can’t imagine Papa ever dancing. I don’t think he believes it proper. Do you think she ever flirted with Papa with her eyes?”
“Who knows?” Roxanne sipped her tea and kept a smile on her mouth. Reverend William Wilkie, that officious prude, would condemn waltzing and all those performing that lewd act to the far reaches of Hell. Indeed, she’d heard him denounce waltzing to her own father. How could Bethanne have wanted to marry him? So many years she’d spent with him. At least she’d had Sophie. Thank the good Lord Sophie had her mother’s looks as well as her good nature, and as far as Roxanne could tell, nothing from her father. That must frost the old hypocrite.
Sophie raised her eyes to Roxanne. “I miss Mama, Roxanne. She always loved me completely, no matter what mischief I ever got into. Do you know when she was dying, she apologized to me that I would have to wait a year to make my come out?” Sophie burst into tears.
Roxanne pulled her close, rubbed her hands up and down her niece’s back. “I know, love, I miss her as well.”
She’s a grown woman now, Roxanne thought, no longer a child, yet she felt decades older than Sophie, even though a mere seven years separated them. When Sophie had dried her eyes, Roxanne said, “You’ve grown into a splendid woman, Sophie. I am so happy to be here with you.”
She watched Sophie gather herself, watched her ease her mother in the bittersweet past. She patted Sophie’s hand. She looked, Roxanne thought, fresh and innocent, and so beautiful it would make gentlemen’s teeth ache. The cut of her gown made her waist look the size of a doorknob, emphasized by a wide, dark green belt. The sleeves of her gown weren’t as large as the fashion dictated this season, but still formidable. Her hair was styled with the requisite ringlets cascading in front of her ears, a high pouf of hair twisted atop her head and fastened with green ribbons. Such a style made Roxanne look like an idiot, but Sophie could be bald and it wouldn’t matter. She was a beauty, like Bethanne, and her nominal dowry wouldn’t make any gentleman withdraw, Roxanne knew it. She wore the small pearl earrings Roxanne had given her.
She looked, Roxanne thought, perfect.
“Remember how short Mama was? And Papa never gained many inches himself. But then I simply would not stop growing. Papa now looks up at me. He says I am too tall, that no gentleman will want a maypole. Then he says this Season is a waste of time and his groats, and I should stay at home and immerse myself in spiritual lessons. When I asked him what spiritual lessons I particularly needed, he could only mutter about making jams for the poor. I told him no one particularly liked my jams, that indeed, Mrs. Pipps, the innkeeper’s wife, had accused me of trying to poison her, and he left the room.”
Had Reverend William Wilkie been here at the moment, Roxanne would have kicked him. What a tiresome fool he was, but it sounded like Sophie could hold her own with him. It was thanks to Bethanne there was money for Sophie’s Season, and Roxanne’s father had reminded Reverend Wilkie of this fact several times to ensure he didn’t spend it on himself. She said, “Your grandfather is the tallest gentleman in the north, and God blessed us with his height.” She leaned close and whispered, “Papa told me a good height can work wonders to depress a gentleman’s unwanted pretensions. It is a lesson I took to heart. So, my dear, always stand tall, keep your shoulders back, and prepare to look down your nose at all the gentlemen congregated at your slippered feet.”
That made Sophie laugh. They were indeed of a height, Roxanne thought, and both had the slender build of Roxanne’s mother, but there all similarity ended. Roxanne’s hair was a deep red. Where did that come from? Sophie’s father had wondered, his deep voice bewildered. Her skin was white as new snow, not a single freckle to give interest to all that white, not even on the backs of her knees. Her eyes were a dark green, filled with mysteries and shadows, one of her beaux had once whispered in her ear. He’d tried to kiss the same ear and earned a clou
t.
Sophie had an olive complexion, like gold dust had been sprinkled on her by a benevolent fairy at her birth, Roxanne had always thought, and her eyes were the light blue of a cloudless sky. As for her hair, it was a rich, deep brown that would become streaked with sunlight in the summer, since Sophie was a great walker.
“It’s been two years since I last saw you, Sophie, and look at you, quite the young lady, no longer a girl.”
“I am told by every well-meaning lady of my acquaintance that I have left girlhood well behind. Indeed, according to Mrs. Beaver, our blacksmith’s wife back home, I am fast approaching spinsterhood and must hie myself to the altar before that dreaded fate befalls me.”
“Then with my advanced years I am a spinster indeed, nearly wobbling on my cane.”
“You don’t have a cane!”
“It is only a matter of time—a very short time—so the well-meaning ladies of my acquaintance tell me. Now, Sophie, this Season is about you, not me. I have no desire to give myself over to marriage, you’re right about that. Why bother? I can think of not a single reason why a man would be needful to me. I could support myself if the need arose. Nor do I need the protection a husband supposedly provides, since Father taught me all sorts of useful tricks to discourage the most presumptuous of gentlemen.” Roxanne tapped her fingers against her chin. “That is not at all to the point. I am the odd one, so you will disregard what I say about marriage. I foresee you will find an excellent husband.”
“What sorts of things did Grandfather teach you?”
Roxanne hugged her. “Later, Sophie. First we must make plans. Oh, yes, I have received six letters from her grace, Corinne Monroe, the dowager Duchess of Brabante, informing me that since I am basically a nobody from nowhere and don’t know anything, she will assist me to bring you out.”
Sophie rolled her eyes, then felt guilty. “She and Mama were such good friends. I haven’t seen her since Mama’s funeral. But I remember her voice very clearly; she never stopped talking and laughing. She thinks you’re a nobody? How strange. I hope she will not be overbearing, Roxanne.”
Of course she will try, as I will try not to shoot her. “I hope she will tell me stories about your mama. I never knew Bethanne all that well, since she was so much older than I was, but I remember whenever our mama said her name—Bethanne—she would nearly sing it.”
Sophie gulped and quickly ate another apricot tart. “Her grace will doubtless be kind to me because of Mama. She can chaperone me whilst you are dancing your slippers off. Ah, so many gentlemen will want to dance with you, Roxanne, to look close upon your beautiful hair, and wonder what you are thinking, since your eyes never give you away, not like mine do.”
Roxanne waved that away. “I did not think this through. Gentlemen might not be needful to me in the everlasting sense of the word, but, on the other hand, one cannot waltz alone. Now, you need but a bit of seasoning to learn to hide your thoughts. You will begin tomorrow evening at the Buxted ball. I believe her grace is visiting us tomorrow to make certain you will be presentable.”
Sophie laughed. “Well done. I swear to be perfectly well behaved. Now, tell me what sorts of things your father taught you, Roxanne.”
A dark red eyebrow shot up, and Roxanne, grinning wickedly, leaned close. “Well, the first thing he taught me was to carry a stiletto in my sleeve, or slip a small penknife in my glove. Your grandfather has marvelous taste, you know. I always seek his approval before I have any gowns made, so when I showed him several styles that interested me, he remarked that the sleeves were so enormous I could hide a brace of pistols in there as well as a dozen knives.”
“Could I have a knife, Roxanne? Just in case?”
“Why not? If any gentleman goes over the line, we will discuss which of us should give him a nice sharp prick.”
6
Until Eve arrived, this was a man’s world.
—RICHARD ARMOR
Buxted Ball
Putnam Square
APRIL 16, 1831
Her grace, Corinne Monroe, the dowager Duchess of Brabante, tapped her fan on her son’s arm. “Julian, look at that tall gentleman standing by the potted palm. It is Richard Langworth, is it not?”
Julian followed his mother’s finger and nodded. “Yes, it is Richard.” He hadn’t seen Richard while he’d been home, and now he was here in London. Had he followed him?
Actually, Julian wished he were anywhere but London. He didn’t know which he dreaded more—meeting Sophie Colette or speaking with Richard. His yacht, Désirée—now, that would be the thing. He could sail to the Hebrides, visit the Viking stone huts, and wonder whether, if he’d been born a Viking, he would be dead by the age of twenty.
Corinne said, “I have seen him and his family only at a distance since Lily’s funeral. In short, they have avoided me. He doesn’t look happy. Do you think he still blames you?”
Oh, yes, he will always believe I murdered his beloved sister, no matter what I say. “I doubt Richard will be unpleasant to either of us, since there are at least two hundred people here tonight. Ignore him.”
The ballroom was too hot, he thought, but he wasn’t about to drink the iced champagne punch, knowing one glass could fell an ox, and that felled ox would then immediately want another glass. Sophie Colette, he thought, and started to cast about for escape plans, when his mother tugged on his sleeve and pointed her fan. “It is about time. There she is—Sophie Colette Wilkie, my dear. Is she not stunning? Look at that rich dark brown hair, the color of mink, I thought this morning when I saw her—like her mother’s, and those magnificent blue eyes, so brilliant and sparkling, don’t you think? As for that beanpole next to her, it is her aunt, Roxanne Radcliffe. As you can see, even from here, she didn’t have the good taste to be older, as she should have been. I had quite counted on her being older, if you know what I mean.”
“No. What do you mean?”
She gave him a look that clearly said, How can you be such a dolt? “She will doubtless try to steal the attention from Sophie. It is too bad, and I should have told her so when I saw her. Alas, I am too kind, and since Bethanne was her sister, kindness seemed the appropriate thing. Don’t you think the gown Sophie is wearing is very flattering? Does not the term princess come to your mind when you look at her?” Since you are a prince, it is fitting, but Corinne didn’t say that aloud, knowing Julian would hoist up his eyebrow and stare at her. Best not to overdo; she didn’t want to put him off. He was a man, after all, and in her experience, for an idea to be worth anything, it had to spring from a male brain.
“She looks well enough,” he said.
Actually, Julian had to admit Sophie Wilkie had a well-nigh-perfect figure, and a lovely face, topped with dark brown hair— mink, his mother had said—all poufed and ringletted. How many hours, or days, did it require to achieve such a style? A princess?
To counter the scale, and to test the waters, Corinne added, “She is dreadfully brown, though. I hadn’t counted on that.”
“I quite like the golden complexion, Mother,” Julian said, but he was looking at Roxanne Radcliffe. He’d never seen such incredible red hair, piles of the stuff, full and rich, worn in thick plaits atop her head, pale pink ribbons threaded through the stack, a plain and simple style that suited her. Her skin was very white, like a new snowfall over the Gallatin Mountains, as white as Devlin’s face. Her gown was pale pink, matching the ribbons in her hair, the skirts full, gauzy stuff that made his fingers itch, her white shoulders bare, small puffed sleeves falling off those shoulders, as they were meant to. He was surprised the pink so suited the opulent red hair, but it was a perfect complement. He said, “Your Sophie Colette is quite as tall as her too-young beanpole aunt.”
Corinne frowned. “I have to admit it, Julian, I was quite surprised to see that Sophie had grown to such an unflattering height, not that I remarked upon it to her, of course, since I doubt there is anything to be done about it. It is a very good thing you are so tall, so she will not h
ave to stoop. Still, I cannot like it. No gentleman likes a girl to stare him right in the eye.” She paused for a moment, studied his face. “Tell me the truth, my dear, are you too revolted?”
“Not at all. I will not get a crick in my neck waltzing with her.” Julian prepared himself. Once he’d met the girl, once he’d waltzed with her and made inane conversation about all the dark clouds covering the half-moon, he could leave this damnable jewelry museum with all the dripping candles and the score of potted palms, Richard Langworth still standing beside one of them, watching, ever watching, and walk in the cool night air to the docks, see if he could find any men from ships coming from Constantinople. He’d spoken again to his man of affairs, Harlan Whittaker, but there was still no word on the Blue Star. As for the most recent shipment of smuggled goods, Harlan was pleased to tell him they’d added a goodly number of groats to their coffers.
He was aware his mother was talking nonstop, but he’d learned to nod in agreement while his mind sailed a continent away. But for the moment, his brain was focused on Roxanne Radcliffe, as she gracefully made her way through the crowd, steering Sophie toward them.
He said, “She is too young to be a chaperone. Perhaps you can mentor both of them.”
“She is not that young, Julian. She is a spinster, she told me so herself. She also said she wasn’t on the hunt for a husband; indeed, she said she had no interest whatsoever in any man, that this Season was all for Sophie. If she was telling me the truth, which I must doubt because I’m not stupid, then she is wise. I mean, look at all that red hair. Who would admire hair like that?
“Oh, dear, there comes my blasted daughter-in-law. Why does God send Lorelei to plague me this soon? Have I committed a sin of which I am not aware? I daresay it would have to be a very grievous sin,” she added, and sighed. “It is a pity I snubbed Mr. Dinwitty so thoroughly, a very godly man, and no doubt this is my punishment.”
Prince of Ravenscar Page 3